


Operation: Football Bat

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead - All Media Types, Walking Dead
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, In which Abraham is still figuring things out and is a little mess up - but hey, Maybe - Freeform, Sexual Content, who isn't these days?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:06:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2692355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, his sweet little suburban dream had guttered itself with salt-tracks, silence and something a bit less than a whimper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: Because Abraham and Rosita have like, nothing written for them last time I checked and I think that is a gosh-darn atrocity, okay?
> 
> Warnings: *Contains: spoilers from "Self Help" to "Crossed" adult language, adult content, sexual content, vague comic book references/possible spoilers in terms of backstory, my own personal take on their first meeting in Dallas, vague reference to attempted suicide, attempted sexual assault, mentions of divorce/marriage issues, reference to the usual emotional trauma, angst, sexual situations, friendship, love and unexpected bonding along the way.

She'd been different from his wife.

That was what had held his attention at first.

She was an unknown entity.

_Fresh._

_Interesting._

_New._

* * *

She'd been a responsibility he hadn't wanted – hadn't been lookin' for - but had shouldered all the same. He hadn't been right, not for a long time after it'd happened – after his wife, their kids – his head hadn't been screwed on right. He'd almost ended it. He'd gotten caught up in the moment. Intending to deep throat his Glock all the way to a good old fashioned dirt nap when god's gift to Nerddom started hollering at him from across the parking lot.

Like it or not, Eugene had given him a purpose.

A reason to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

_A mission._

He hadn't understood it at first.

_Hadn't wanted to._

But right from the start, Rosita had always meant just a little bit more.

* * *

He was a simple man. Not that hard to figure despite what his wife might have had to say on the subject. He needed, well, to be needed. He needed something to fight for – a cause – something bigger than himself. He needed it like he'd needed his time in the service.

He knew it was fucked up. That it probably wasn't healthy putting all your eggs into one basket. And that if he'd ever slowed down long enough to get shunted off to some brainiac with a license to rifle around in his head, they might have suggested trying to live for himself for a change. But he'd always needed the rush.

He'd lived for the pride and surety that'd come hand in hand with the stiff lines of his dress uniform. Basking in the knowledge that even if lives were lost, there was always the bigger picture, the greater good. That everything had its time, purpose and place. And that you had to keep on going, keep fighting, because deep down this  _wasn't_  about you.

It wasn't about politics or religion or any of that crap.

It was about what was right and what was wrong.

And how the world balanced it out in the end.

But more than anything, it was about how he'd always felt like he  _had_ to be a part of it.

* * *

He still wasn't quite sure what to make of the fact that Rosita had understood that part of him without even having to try. Accepting it in a way Ellen never could.

He didn't like to think about it, to be honest.

* * *

Call him dramatic, or even a fucked up romantic, but he'd always pictured the end of their marriage as looking more like a battlefield - pock-marked and bloody - than the aftermath of some Soap Opera holiday special. He'd foreseen a fair fight, unplanned, honest and explosive. Something that would fit who they were - together and apart - or at least who he thought they were anyway. It seemed like he'd been wrong about a lot of things back then, and that assumption had only been the start.

They were two strong personalities who'd married early, too early. Like some rom-com's wet dream they'd been high school sweethearts, tying the knot just a year after graduation and only a few months before his first deployment. Their parents had been proud as hell and they'd been plum-drunk on each other.

" _Mad love, ginger-snap,"_  Ellen had always said, swapping his frown for a kiss as she dug her thumbs into the sore points of his shoulders after a day of getting his ass kicked out on the range with his unit.  _"Mad love is what we got. Now and forever. The world couldn't stop us if it tried."_

But between that, the kids and his deployments, somewhere along the line, they hadn't just grown apart, they'd grown  _different_. It got to a point where they made an art form of arguing over the phone. Of keeping their voices to a minimum during the screaming matches on his furloughs home and hiding the fact that he was sleeping on the living room couch more nights than not whenever friends and relatives came to visit.

In the end she'd given him and ultimatum.

Them or the job.

So he'd come home - retired.

Made the adjustment back into the civilian life with barely a ripple from the outside looking in.

Only it hadn't worked.

In fact, it'd only made things worse.

In the end, his sweet little suburban dream had guttered itself with salt-tracks, silence and something a bit less than a whimper.

* * *

"I left for you. I took early requirement. Handed over my unit - my men – all for you. You and the kids!" he roared. All clenched fists and a dangerous sort of deadly calm he didn't quite know what to do with as she looked up from her desk with tired eyes - the office nook strewn wide with all her newspaper shit despite the fact that she hadn't published a story in months.

"And you never let me forget it," she replied, voice hard as steel as the fire-brand he'd married made a brief re-appearance before apathy rushed in and ruined it. Softening it in a way that made him think if this shit didn't stop, it was going to end in tears - one way or another.

She shook her head sadly, like once again he'd managed to disappoint her. "No Abe. You left because I _asked_  you to. That's the thing. You left for us, but if I hadn't asked. If I hadn't begged and pleaded and told you how important having you home was for me  _\- for our family_ \- it would've never occurred to you."

"You've always said you needed a mission and deep down I never understood that. I tried to. For fuck's sake Abe, I tried for  _years!_  But every time I got close to an answer, all I could think – all I saw – was us. Me and the kids and you off in some sand hill playing solider."

"Why weren't we never good enough?" she demanded, posture ram-rod straight as she held a steaming mug of tea in her hands like a shield. "For god's sakes Abraham, tell me why, give me  _something_."

* * *

He didn't remember much after that.

Save for the sole sensation of his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Tempering the urge to backhand that stupid mug of tea all over the god damned wall. Telling himself over and over that it wasn't worth it. That he should've seen this coming a mile away, that-

He didn't remember who started it.

Or how he shot back.

All he  _did_  remember is how she finished it.

It seemed appropriate, given the circumstances, that she chose to break him with words. Using the one thing he wasn't good at to strip him raw and leave him with nothing - less than nothing - as he fought the urge to crumple right there in the middle of their god damn living room.

"You're a good man, Abraham. A good father when it comes down to it," Ellen reflected sadly, looking up at him with something so close to pity that sick surged in the back of his throat.

"But you're just that type, you know? The kind that was never really meant to come home."

* * *

He had them back for a little while - back when things first fell apart.

It had been close to a year and a half since he'd signed. Since he got the kids every other weekend plus holidays, rather than every night when he lugged his tired ass through the door after a day of listening to a bunch of spoiled brats whine about doing laps in the rain.

And hell if he hadn't sat bolt upright on the couch when Wildfire first made headlines.

He hadn't even thought about the fact that he'd proven her right when the first thing he did was ring up his old CO and get the entire thing right from the horse's mouth.

He'd been one of the lucky ones. The kind of paranoid that planned for shit like this. That had it all figured out – from his evac route to all the supplies they might need – prepped and ready to go close to half a week before the military starting flying troops into Atlanta.

What he hadn't counted on was Ellen putting her heels in.

" _For god's sakes, Abe! You sound like a crazy person. The President just said that the CDC was working on a cure and that the military has it contained in- no! You know what, I don't want to hear it! We aren't going anywhere! I am swamped with work, Becca has her dental tomorrow and I need to get A.J. to soccer practise in-shit! Look, just stop calling me or I'll get your visitation revoked!"_

She stopped taking his calls eventually, throwing his entire game plan right into the pisser. In the end they barely made it out. He rolled up just in time to catch her lugging suitcases off the front porch and into the suburban. Acting like she had all the time in the world as explosions and screams – someone's natural gas or maybe just a good old fashioned electrical fire - rippled through the neighborhood not two blocks over.

He'd seen it before.  _Tunnel vision._

He knew better than to go with words. He just scooped up the kids and stuffed them, tears and all, in the cab of his truck. He ignored the pile of suitcases still left by the front door and threw the suitcase she was wheeling clear over the hood of the car just in time for the neighbour's front window to come bursting open – a blur of dark shapes tearing through glass as the kids screamed and his hand fumbled with the snap on his thigh holster.

"Move!" he yelled. "Move your ass!"

* * *

The worst part about it was, back when she'd eventually served him with the papers, intimidating the lanky little slip of a lawyer she'd sent to the hotel he'd had to suck up his pride just to park alongside. Looking down at that plain, manila envelopment with the fancy seal stamped in the corner, he realized that when push came to shove, he didn't feel as broken up about it as he'd thought he'd be.

He tried not to think too much about that either.


	2. Chapter 2

She didn't talk about it much.

About the people she'd run with before they'd met up in Dallas.

She didn't have to.

He'd seen enough in the first five minutes to make her an offer he knew she couldn't refuse.

* * *

Hell, it wasn't like he could leave her out there on her own anyway.

What with those big eyes and cocky expression.

The world would eat her up and spit her back out, quick as anything.

It probably had more than once before he'd come along.

Not that she'd ever talked about it.

Besides, like he'd told her right then and there, he liked what he saw.

She could take care of herself.

She'd be useful, maybe even essential in helping get Eugene to Washington.

What he hadn't told her was that either way, it wouldn't have mattered.

No matter how far gone you were. Leaving people behind just wasn't him.

It would  _never_  be him.

_Because if it was, what was the point?_

He was tired of being alone.

Ellen had been right.

Sometimes you needed  _more_  than just the mission.

* * *

She'd looked remarkably young - far younger than she actually was - as she looked up at him through a tangle of dark hair and tight jeans. She was filthy, mouth bloody around the edges from where she'd bit a chunk out of the arm of one of the assholes she'd been runnin' with. Not taking too kindly to his wandering hands and selective deafness when it came to the word "no" as she leveled him with a withering stare from across the blacktop.

It'd been her eyes - doe-wide and slightly feral - that'd made him take a second look.

There'd been something in them he'd recognized. A likeness.

_She was a fighter. Whatever the world was now, she took it on willingly. Fully intending to beat it, no matter the odds. He respected that._

She kept the high ground, staying on the opposite side of the dirty van. Suspicious, but too busy wheezing for breath from the sucker-punch the jerkoff had gotten in a few seconds before he could charge out of the brush to intervene to do much about it.

It hadn't taken much. The guy had been too busy thinking about getting his dick wet to consider that anyone and their dog could be lurking on the other side of the ditch. Either way, he was glad he'd left Eugene in the root cellar of some house a few miles back, knee deep in an inventory of their supplies. Anything to keep him from getting into trouble as he surveyed the area up ahead.

_They were low on gas and just about everything else._

_Normally he brought His Nerddom along, but the guy was still a shit shot and he wasn't familiar with the road up this way and after the traffic jam they'd budged their way through to escape that herd, he wasn't taking any chances._

_He couldn't risk it – risk Eugene – not with what was at stake._

"I could have handled it," she rasped, voice hitching as she coughed and forced herself to straighten. One hand low on her gut as she fought the urge to spew breakfast all over the asphalt.

"You were handling it," he returned, shifting the butt of his semi-auto to his right hip – finger far from the trigger as she relaxed a fraction. "Ain't nothing wrong with accepting a bit of help now and again."

"Oh yeah?" she shot back, tone bitter and damn near cold as ice as she spat up a mouthful of blood-tainted phlegm and wiped her mouth, pig-tails flying. "And when was the last time you asked for help, tough guy?"

The corner of his lip quirked in spite of himself.

Attitude or not, it was her eyes that gave her away.

"Right now," he admitted, feeling a few sizes too big for his skin as the wind shifted and a soft easterly breeze sent trash and debris skittering across the road. "None of us can make it alone anymore. We shouldn't have to. More to the point, I don't want to. And I am not ashamed of that."

He was lucky enough to get to watch as a perfectly shaped brow arched, sassy and keen in all the ways he was just itching to get to know as she looked at him like he was halfway to crazy. And hell, maybe he was. Either way he could barely keep from grinning.

"Who the hell are you?"

He just smiled.

"My name is Sargent Abraham Ford, and I have a very important mission."

* * *

It didn't take long for him to figure out that Rosita was one of those types who'd still be young, sassy and endearing until some heinous old age, like eighty-nine or a hundred and two. It was a pretty stark difference considering that Ellen - god bless her trying little heart - had been the just about the opposite. The kind whose good grace and patience had been used up long before she hit thirty five.

It didn't take much to get her trained up. Most of it she already knew, considering she'd survived this long with only a bunch of jerkholes for company. He'd basically laid down a few ground rules and let her figure the rest out for herself. In fact, it wasn't long before she and Eugene were going at it like wet cats. She called him out on his bullshit and Eugene responded in kind, doing his best to wind her up right back.

Sometimes he felt like he was the only adult in the room.

Like he was too damn old to deal with this type of shit.

Other times he couldn't help but grin and join in.

_That was the problem._

Somewhere along the line he'd let it become  _more_ than just a mission.

More than some goal wrapped in gold at the end of the finish line.

It was better than that.

_Worse._

Because deep down something in him just knew that when all this ended in blood and bullets, losing her – losing the  _both_ of them – was going to hurt like a sonofabitch.

* * *

The truth was that finding her had been the push he'd needed.

Not to get over what had happened or make it better.

Nothing could do that.

But it'd sure as hell helped get him back on track when it came into all that living stuff.

She was good at that kind of shit.

And lucky for him, she had a knack for making second hand stuff want to shine again.

* * *

Still, he'd be a full-out lying sonofabitch if he said he wasn't caught off guard when one night he woke up from a doze to find her closing the door to the room he'd settled in for the night. Face lit up by the flickering orange of a candle stub as she faced him down, cool as anything, as if daring him to question it as she tossed her hat onto the bed and shimmied out of her jeans.

It was only when her shirt went the same way and he swallowed hard, staring up at a landscape of tanned cream and off-centre constellations of freckles he desperately wanted to map out with his lips that he manned up and called her bluff.

"What are you doing?"

He was up on his elbows, sheets barely hitched up at his waist when the words finally made it out. Mouth opening and closing for a few precious seconds as she tugged her hair free and surrounded them in a dark, sweet smellin' curtain.

"Don't be stupid," she told him, slipping under the covers like water on silk, all easy movements and the sort of confidence he wished he could say he'd had at her age. Sitting astride him, bold as anything, as her hand trailed down his chest - raspy and exploratory until they hit pay dirt - enough to make him arch into it as her nail caught on a nipple.

He felt like a grenade with a faulty pin, struck dumb by the irony of it all as she squirmed under the covers and pulled him out of his briefs. There was no foreplay, no easing into it. Just his hands firming around her hips, gasping at the same air as she sunk down on him.

And in a lot of ways, it actually made it okay.

Just like the sigh of relief that bubbled up from her perfect throat when she bottomed out. Like she'd finally managed to soothe some itch she'd been meaning to scratch.

He could give her this.

_Take this._

They could be here for each other, right here and right now.

They didn't have to talk about tomorrow or the next day.

They didn't have to talk at all.

* * *

Only problem was, it didn't stay that way.

* * *

She'd been different from his wife.

_Christ alive, was that ever an understatement._

In truth, from start to finish, Rosita was nothing like her.

From the way she moved her hips – rolling and bold – to the way she bared her teeth when she came. All but purring into the crook of his neck as soft curves and impossibly perky little breasts pillowed against his chest as twilight settled in to stay. She was an entirely different animal, distinguishable even in the dark when he woke up in a cold sweat, jerky and soaked with blood that really wasn't there, he could always tell the difference.

And that was a good thing.

He thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Reference:
> 
> *"Football Bat" – is a US Army slang for an individual or way of doing things that is particularly odd.
> 
> *According to The Walking Dead wiki, Abraham's wife's name is Ellen. Their son was called A.J and their daughter, Becca.


End file.
